Fugue Forgotten
by lmbrtvll
Summary: Abandoned in a less than perfect psychiatric institution, Bella is barely surviving. Spurred on by Alice's vision of the girl they're meant to help, Carlisle Cullen enters Bella's life. Can he, with the help of Edward, find what is lost? Ev.ExB, AU Dark
1. Chapter 1

**Fugue Forgotten**

**Chapter 1**

_Disclaimer: Twilight and all characters belong to S.M._

_This story will be dark and may not be for everyone._

_Thanks to PTB for great beta work._

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I close my eyes as I feel the slide of the needle beneath my skin. Once terrified of even the sight of them, I've grown accustomed and indifferent to the entire two-second procedure. I don't fight it anymore. I've learned that it doesn't accomplish anything; it only makes it worse. You fight them and they increase your dosage before you even realize it. Instead of a hazy 12 hours, it's a hazy 48. Those 12 hours of barely- coherent thought are about as much as I can take. I live for those other 12 hours during the day when I'm more in charge of my brain, my thoughts, my actions.

I know why they do it, why they drug me. The sedation is a poorly executed and last-ditch effort to keep me, Bella, here. They think that when sedated, my mind won't have the capacity to lose its grasp on reality and disappear, only to be replaced by an irrational stranger.

My body is no longer my own. Bella floats away somewhere and comes back hours, days, sometimes weeks later with no memory of the mayhem that has gone on in her absence, or the damage left in its wake. I cherish the moments I'm sane and whole, and I know this isn't normal it's not something I do on purpose. I would give anything to be a normal person.

Apparently that's what they want too – that's why they keep me drugged. It doesn't work. I still end up losing my grasp. I'm still forcefully yanked away from conscious awareness.

I've been Bella for the past three weeks. The longer I go in between episodes, the more on edge I become. It's like watching a scary movie and waiting for the bad guy to pop out, only my mind is the bad guy and it's not some movie I can shut off.

"How are you today, Isabella?" The nurse who gave me my shot is starting in on her list of routine questions to help determine my current mental state. In the beginning, I insisted they call me Bella, but no one ever listened. So, like so many other things, I gave up on that, too.

"Fine." One-word answers are best. They lead to fewer questions by the nurses, orderlies, or whomever the fuck is ordered to poke you next.

"Are you having any thoughts about harming yourself or others?" That question still catches me off guard. Would I really answer truthfully if I were?

"No."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Monday."

Satisfied with my answers, the nurse leaves and locks my door behind her. I'm in a secure ward due to the nature of my condition. When I'm… not me, I've been told my actions are unpredictable and often harmful to myself. I would imagine that's why I've come back to find myself covered in bruises, or with unfamiliar bandages covering some part of me.

I don't know why I'm like this. I can't even remember when it started. Renee, my late mother, though flighty and immature, wasn't the least bit psychotic. Nor was my father, Charlie. It looks like I'm the odd one out.

It's not from drugs or a blow to the head. It's uncontrollable, no matter how much I try to fight it. It's tearing me apart. It's ruined my relationship with Charlie. He hasn't visited in months. I can still remember the hurt and pain in his eyes the last time he was here.

But what about _me_? I'm the one stuck in this hellhole. I'm the one stabbed with a needle every day and drugged within an inch of her consciousness. This may be a legitimate psychiatric hospital, but it's far from glamorous.

I spend my days locked away unless I'm being escorted to eat in the dining hall to eat with the other patients. Not like they'll sit with me. You don't really come to a psychiatric hospital to make friends.

There's also my twice-weekly trips to the rec. room to get exercise. I don't know how they can expect me to be capable of any sort of physical activity when the sedatives in my mind are overpowering my ability to put one foot in front of the other.

So I spend most of my time curled up on my lumpy and uncomfortable bed, in my generic blue, jersey pants and blue t-shirt. I stare at the same wall in my white cinderblock room that contains – besides my bed – a small side table. Clothing is handed out each day, so there's no need for a dresser. I'm too incapacitated to write, or paint, or do anything remotely productive, so a desk was unnecessary.

My room does, however, contain a small window, barred of course, in the upper right hand corner of the far wall. That is how I keep track of the days. It isn't as easy as it could have been considering that this is Washington and we don't get much sun.

I can feel the drugs coursing through my bloodstream now. My body feels heavy, my mind lethargic and slow. Being this way makes it easier to pass the day. I don't have to occupy my mind; I don't have to _feel_. It's unfortunate that not having the one thing I want – the ability to feel – is what is making living here easier. I'm angry with Charlie for throwing me in here without so much as a warning. I'm angry that he's too much of a coward to face the daughter he abandoned in a mental institution.

I'm terrified of the doctors and nurses with their needles and empty promises, their false glances of comfort as I go weeks without an episode only to break days later. I'm terrified of myself. I'm not normal. I'm not in control. I can't even predict when I'll be ripped from my body next.

The longer I'm here, the more and more I become unfamiliar with myself. Each time I come back from an episode, I recognize less and less the body I inhabit. My fingers look thinner, my skin too pasty, my hair too limp. But it is me.

I'm never hungry because of the constant influx of chemicals into my system. I know I've lost weight. Where healthy curves used to be are angular bones or flat plains.

I never see the sun, not directly at least. The small window only lets in the smallest of rays, just enough to give me the general time of day.

I can't remember the last time I washed my hair. Every time I need to go to the bathroom I have to call for a nurse or orderly. They not only escort me there, but chaperone me as I use the bathroom or stand under the never-hot-enough stream of water. It should be embarrassing and shameful but I can't bring myself to feel either of those emotions. At this point, I have no dignity left. There is no part of my body they haven't seen, no area that's gone unsearched or untouched.

My body shudders on my bed as I recall stumpy, clammy fingers roaming my legs, my mouth – everywhere – upon admission. For days afterward I wouldn't let anyone touch me. Now, partially due to the medication, I don't even flinch if they feel the need to search me.

Today is Monday. Tomorrow is my weekly appointment with Smith. Dr. Paul Smith is the psychiatrist in charge of my case. He calls me difficult, but assures me, and Charlie the few times he's visited, that there hasn't yet been a case he hasn't resolved. He believes that the right combination of therapy and medication will fix me right up.

What if I can't be fixed?

I can't even tell you how long I've been here, but I can tell you it's been long enough for me to loose track of time. In here, time only moves in smaller increments: seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks. The longest I've ever kept track of was a month. And then I fell apart; Bella was gone for a full two weeks.

I've been told that Dr. Smith kept me locked in my room, sedated or restrained most of the time. When I wasn't sedated, I was screaming. When I wasn't restrained, I was clawing at myself.

Looking down at my wrists, I can vividly see the still-healing scars, a permanent reminder of my absence from my body.

My episodes are like a reset button on my internal clock. Every time I have one, I set my counting of days, sometimes minutes, back to one.

Dr. Smith calls what I am suffering from Dissociative Fugue, with depersonalization from reality being my major symptom. He likes to think I have borderline personality disorder, but what I really want to tell him is that the only people with personality disorders around here are him and his fucking grubby handed nurses and orderlies who get way too much satisfaction from sticking me with a needle.

The squeaking of wheels from a wheelchair or a gurney, I'm unsure which, barely permeate the fog of my mind. But it does. It's rhythmic, and I can't keep myself from repeating the pattern in my head. I wish it were me in that wheelchair, or better yet, on a gurney headed to the morgue.

I guess you could call me suicidal. Who wouldn't be depressed stuck in a place like this. I don't socialize. I don't have hobbies. I lie around passing my time by either talking about my feelings with Smith or waiting for my next episode.

I'm done. I'm sick and tired of this unchanging style of life that I didn't even ask for. If I could slit my wrists, or hang myself, or overdose on my medication and slip into a peaceful oblivion, never to wake up, I would, without a second thought. I doubt Charlie would be upset, he'd probably be relieved that his dark secret, Chief Swan's crazy daughter, was finally gone.

But this is a psychiatric hospital. How I'm supposed to find some extra meds or something sharp or even a plastic bag is beyond me.

I'm scared. I can feel my grasp on reality slipping, like fatigued muscles that shake as you push them to work just a little bit longer. It's almost a suffocating feeling. This terror blankets me and I can't breath. It would be easier to let go. But to let go is to lose Bella. To let go is to be pushed far away until I'm released back into my body. _My_ body that is somehow no longer my own.

I can feel the battle brewing between the sedatives and the psychosis. It's an ugly feeling – a fight between two things that shouldn't be in my body, yet are. The fight for control is gruesome. I feel dizzy, like I'm floating back and forth on a seesaw thanks to the medication. There's a noiseless pounding in my head as whatever lies dormant within me struggles to break free.

My breathing picks up as I walk the tenuous edge between psychosis and a medicated stupor. I can feel every fiber of the rough sheet covering my bed as my hands grasp at something, anything, to keep me grounded to reality. I can feel the bed trembling beneath me as my legs and arms shake. I'm cold and hot at the same time. It's a war in my mind, a war of temperatures.

"Please." It comes out in a garbled whisper, a plea to myself to end this madness, to stay as Bella for just a little while longer.

I can feel it happening. I'm slipping away. I'm not strong enough to fight it. I'll never be strong enough. This vicious cycle has to end.

The last thing I'm aware of is the piercing scream that tears through my throat as I'm thrust outward, a vagrant in my own life.

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Thanks for reading! Depending on the response I get with this chapter, the next one should be up on Saturday. I'd like to stick with a Saturday update schedule. This story has really become my project so I'd love to hear your thoughts. Review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Fugue Forgotten**

**Chapter 2**

**Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.**

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I don't know where I am. I'm numb to all sensations as I float in an empty plain that is neither here nor there. It's refreshing to be able to think clearly without the dulling apathy of the sedatives. Here, I don't feel the madness that usually resides in my head.

As much as I hate being in a transitory state, I don't mind the clarity, during which I can think, breath – be. The odd thing about my episodes are whenever I'm caught in the throes of one, I'm quite aware of it. It's only afterwards that I don't remember anything.

I'm also blissfully unaware of whatever damage I'm causing to my body right now. If the episode is bad enough, I catch snippets of whatever I'm doing. Perhaps they're brief moments of lucidity as I fight to catch my breath before plunging into the deadness that I currently occupy.

There's a body on my bed. She's sitting hunched over with her knees to her chest, her chin tucked in so that her hair covers most of her face. Her hands clasp her wrists as she sits and rocks. She looks distressed, and for a moment, I'm suffocating, overwhelmed with a rush of despair for this shattered girl whose face is so like mine.

And then it's gone. Her movements have stilled, and her chin now rests atop her knees as she stares at the empty side of the room. She's mumbling; one hand travels up to her stringy, lifeless hair as the other softly pats the bed.

"I can be free." Her desires are mine. Freedom is what we crave. Freedom from this disease; independence from this prison.

"Free," she moans, louder now. She starts to rock again, each sway increases in intensity. The bed squeaks in protest, as if it's shouting at her to stop, to snap out of it, to stop acting like a fucking lunatic. But that's why she – I'm, here.

And then she's out of the bed. She almost looks like she's suspended in mid-air, flying. Free. She's across the room, scrambling slightly as she gets twisted in the covers. Her legs are shaky, but that doesn't keep her from moving quickly.

She's at the door. Her hand grasps at the handle, and she yanks on it. The sound of the locked door shaking in the doorframe is deafening and I start to cover my ears with my hands when I realize it's unnecessary. The noise isn't painful; nothing is painful when I'm here. The move was merely reflexive.

"Free," she cries.

Her gaze darts around the room. She's as skittish and awkward as a scared animal, and the thinness of her body only accentuates that.

She's scurrying again, across the room. She's at the wall with the window situated in the upper right-hand corner. She's clawing at it, her fists bang onto the grey cinderblocks.

"Free," she grunts.

She keeps banging. I can only imagine how painful the wall is against her small hands.

"Need to fly away." Her voice is lighter now, almost singing.

Suddenly, she stills and stiffens. Her twig-like arms are straight at her sides, her back unnaturally upright as she sits on her knees against the wall. She leans forward, jerking her head against the wall in the process. A low moan escapes her lips, and then a high, uneven shriek.

There's the sound of keys jingling at the door, and I hear it slam against the door-jamb when it's roughly pushed open.

And then I'm away and it's quiet. If I could feel my heart, it would be pounding against my chest. I'm gasping as if I'd been holding my breath for hours. I want to go back. I want to see what happens to the girl.

What I really want is to _be_ back. I want my body. I don't think it can take much more of that abuse without suffering damage. Well, _more_ damage. I'm already broken. I broke the day Charlie signed me in at the front desk and drove away without a second glance.

That Charlie isn't the father I knew – the one I grew up with. My Charlie was _daddy_. He was warm, kind. He kissed my scraped knees and twisted ankles. He checked my closet for boogey men and under my bed for monsters. He was there when the nightmares had me screaming in the middle of the night.

This new Charlie wasn't there when I needed him the most. When I'd had enough of the needles. When I yearned for a soft, warm bed. When I needed to be held by my daddy.

He had morphed into Charlie – a man ashamed of his daughter. Unable to support her.

He pushed me away.

Just like my body pushes me away. It is morbidly fascinating how this state is timeless. The moments and instances just flow into one another, only occasionally broken up by brief flashes and pictures of real life.

My mind spins as I'm bombarded with another image of the girl. She's back on her bed, and if I couldn't see the shallow rise and fall of her chest, I would have believed her to be dead. She's on top of her threadbare blanket, still dressed in her thin pants and long sleeve shirt.

Her wrists are tethered to the bed on either side of her, as are her legs. Thick straps of leather that are cutting into the soft, delicate flesh of her wrists and ankles immobilize her.

She's not screaming anymore. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused – she's been given another dose of sedatives. Barely audible whimpers erupt from her throat. My stomach churns when I notice an oozing gash on her forehead, and I shudder as I remember the distinct sound of her head hitting the wall.

She's trapped, just as I am.

It bothers me that no one has taken the time to tend to her wounds. She's left bound there like an animal, not important enough to cover a cut or loosen the bonds.

I'm pulled away again and I want to scream in frustration. These visions give me a taste of the reality I so desperately yearn for when I'm …away. To be yanked back to my lonely world of quiet is torture. With every image, I hope it'll be the last, that I'll be released back into my body for good.

"Isabella." A cold, hard voice pierces through my world of silence.

"Isabella." My surroundings are fading. There's an intense pressure on my body from all sides, and I struggle to breathe. I'm dizzy, like my mind is swirling in a vortex of clouds.

And then there's pain. Unimaginable pain, everywhere. At least I know I'm in what's real. Bella is back.

Bella is hurting.

Why is my head throbbing? It enunciates each beat of my heart with an undulation of ache that encompasses my whole head. I can smell old blood. It makes my stomach churn, and I fight back the urge to vomit.

I'd probably choke if I did, seeing as I'm strapped to my bed. Thick bindings of leather keep me pushed down against my bed, unable to move. I'm confused as to why I'm restrained. I don't even know what day it is.

"Isabella."

I want to yell at whoever is calling me that. I want them to get the vivid and painful light out of my eyes. I would push them away if my arms could move.

I moan in hopes that any type of vocalization will appease them.

"Do you know where you are, Isabella?" It's Smith.

Fuck off!

"Yes," I manage to croak.

What I would really like is for someone to get these goddamn restraints off me. They're cutting into my skin. My wrists and ankles are already swollen and caked with blood, meaning I've been here for awhile.

"Take these off."

Smith shakes his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Isabella. We need to make sure you don't relapse."

We've been going through this cycle for what feels like forever, and not once have I relapsed. I think we both know that. I think Smith just wants to keep me uncomfortable for as long as possible.

I realize he just said relapse. That means I've just had another episode. A wave of grief, hopelessness, and anger crashes down over me. Why won't this end?

"That's quite a nasty gash you've given yourself there." He reaches to touch my head, but I flinch back.

I struggle with my bonds only to freeze when it exacerbates the stinging in my swollen flesh.

"Lie still, Isabella."

I don't like how he orders me around. He may be a doctor, but I have no respect for him. What has he done to help me? What has this man, who vowed to help others as much as humanly possible, done to release me of my mental chains?

Nothing.

"We're going to have to take another look at your combination of meds. Even with the daily sedative, it's not working."

His fucking ignorance kills me. It's been apparent that this "wondrous" cocktail of drugs hasn't been working since my first episode here.

As soon as Charlie signed on the dotted line, signed my life away to this psychiatric hell, a custom mélange of chemicals was concocted for me to be supplemented by daily sedatives.

Smith always tried to assure me, and maybe himself, during our appointments that the cocktail would take some time to work. I learned to tune him out.

Nothing works anymore. My brain doesn't work. My body barely functions. My ability to hope, to believe that maybe someday I'll get out of here, is on its last legs.

I exhale loudly and concentrate on tuning Smith out. It's easy – the fucker has an inherently monotone voice. Within seconds, he's merely a drone in the background and I'm left alone with the agonizing misery I feel sinking into every pore of my being.

This must be my fault somehow. Karma is an evil bitch and I must have spited someone terribly to end up here. I wouldn't wish this fate on my worst enemy.

I bet it was Charlie. I wasn't a good daughter to him. I was too needy, too clumsy. I never thanked him. Not once. I must have been an evil child. I must have done the devil's dark bidding to land in a place that resembled the likes of Hell. Funny. I thought Satan would have been a lot more powerful. And a lot better looking. Instead, Hades is run by a wiry older man with salt and pepper hair and a two-outfit wardrobe. Though Smith is a clever moniker for Satan.

I chuckle with dry humor and notice Smith giving me an odd look. He's clearly upset with my refusal to be touched, as usual – he believes it to be another symptom. I call it self-preservation. "So long as you're lucid come tomorrow, we'll have a session."

I'm excited to see him turn away from me to leave the room. My head is still throbbing and I would give anything for a cold glass of water to moisten my dry throat.

Before he leaves, Smith turns to me, his blindingly white teeth appearing as his lips pull back into an eerie smile. "I'll be sure to send the nurse in with your next dose soon."

Maybe he really is the devil.

He shuts my lights off on his way out. It's nighttime and only the slightest amount of light filters in through my sorry excuse for a window.

I lick my dry, cracked lips as I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't like the dark. I haven't ever since Charlie stopped checking my closet and bed for things that might get me.

"You're too old to still be believin' that, Bells," he would say, and I would try my damnedest not to cry. I was grown up now, fourteen. Couldn't cry in front of the chief. So I tiptoed back into my room, careful not to disturb whatever might be hiding in there, and jumped onto my bed. I scooted into the center so if hands emerged from underneath and clawed at the sides, they wouldn't get me.

But they did get me. The next morning, Charlie came to wake me only to find me catatonic, still curled up in the center of the bed. He took me to Dr. G who assured Charlie that physically, I was fine.

I was back to Bella in a day and half.

Two weeks later, Charlie had a night shift. I was slowly becoming used to the anxiety that would accompany bedtime now that there was no fatherly reassurance of safety. But being home alone at bedtime was something completely different. There would be no one to hear me scream, no one to save me from the monsters that might be lurking.

I was gone by midnight. I was incapacitated for a week this time. I didn't understand what was happening to me. Charlie didn't know what was happening to me. Dr. G didn't know what was happening to me.

We got by like this for months, possibly longer. I stopped keeping track. It was too hard when I was gone. Eventually, Charlie snapped and put me away.

Did Daddy know his little girl was chained to her bed? Did Daddy know his little girl was not eating? Did Daddy know his little girl was terrified that she would soon become a victim of not only the disease but the cure?

No.

Did Daddy know this wasn't working? Yes.

Fucking Smith tells him everything.

A sob rips through my throat, and my body shudders violently against my bonds. I want to die. It's that simple. I just wish that those running this place would put me out of my misery. Either fix me or let me die. Enough with this in-between shit.

Enough.

The warm salty tears that run down my face are comforting. They let me know I'm still sane, seeing as I can't physically cry when I'm in a fugue and not in my body. My moments of sanity are what I hold on to the tightest.

My sobbing must have alerted the nurse to my "need" for drugs. I'm helpless as she approaches me with the needle in hand. I want to scream at her as she wipes my arm with a cold alcohol swab, but my mouth is thick with dryness.

Her cool blue eyes seem to pierce into my soul as the needle pierces my skin.

My eyes grow heavy as an unnatural sense of calm flows through me. I stop fighting the fatigue and let the drugs take me.

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_I was a little disappointed with the response to chapter 1, lots of quiet people! To those who did review, thank you from the bottom of my heart. This is going to be quite the journey. To everyone else - please review! You have no idea how even the shortest of reviews really makes my day. Everyone who reviews will be sent a sneak peek of next weeks chapter._


	3. Chapter 3

**Fugue Forgotten**

**Chapter 3**

**Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.**

**Thanks to PTB for the wonderful beta-ing.**

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I can't help but count the cracks in the deteriorating tile floor as I'm escorted like the prisoner I am to my session with Smith. My feet, only protected from the harsh surface on which I tread by thin slippers, scuff in a comforting rhythm. It's actually the only sound. The hallways I pass through are quiet, which I find odd. It's daytime and one would expect some sort of activity to be audible from the hallway – some sort of sign that there's life here.

Doors are closed, the little windows in them dark and still. The stillness here makes me anxious, jittery. I want to scream in the middle of the hallway and wake this place up. The lack of life here is a unsettling reminder of where I am.

"Keep up, Isabella."

The orderly doesn't even look back as she issues me a command. She can go fuck herself. I'm not some child to be reprimanded for walking to slow. I'm tempted to slow down even more just to screw with her, but making someone here angry is the last thing I want to do. They are, after all, in charge of the chemicals that are forced into my body.

Too soon, I'm standing at Smith's door, the heavy oak wood looking worse for wear. The orderly knocks for me, like I'm incapable of banging on a piece of wood. They're all so fucking discriminatory here. Being a patient, you're automatically assumed to be mentally incompetent. I can't bring myself to care enough to tell them otherwise.

Smith stands before me, and a very faint wave of nausea rolls through me. Had there been no drugs coursing through my bloodstream, I'm sure I would have vomited on his annoyingly shiny brown dress shoes.

"Good to see you, Isabella." I stare numbly at Smith as he dismisses the orderly and opens the door wider to invite me in. His office is large, but of course it would be. He is the head, well, really the only psychiatrist here. A battered oak desk is pushed against the far cinderblock wall right next to a large window. Maybe one of the only unbarred windows in the whole damn hospital, because of us being the prisoners that we are.

I take my usual seat on the large, overstuffed couch that's placed next to Smith's desk. I like to sit in the middle. The green velvet looks like it dates back to the twenties, and the cushions poke me. Sitting in the middle, I'm far away from Smith, who rolls his desk chair out and sets it catty-cornered it to the right side of the couch.

His pants are the color of dog shit and his plaid shirt makes me dizzy. I can't keep myself from following his foot as he bounces it while he crosses his legs. Our appointment hasn't even begun and he's already scribbling like the mad man he is in his annoyingly yellow note pad.

"I'm feeling a little troubled, Isabella. How are you feeling?"

The shrink was feeling troubled. Wonderful.

"Fine." I cross my arms around my middle as if I'm attempting to block him from me.

"Do you know why I'm feeling troubled?"

I shrug my shoulders. I don't think I could care less. Actually, I really _couldn't_ care less. I was dosed right before my appointment.

"You had another fugue." Ah, throw in the fancy terms and call yourself a doctor.

"You bounced between unresponsive and maniacal for a week. I believe it's safe to say your current drug combination is not getting the job done."

I don't answer him. I have nothing to say. I feel like I should be devastated. Finding out I'd just had an episode that lasted a whole week should be disheartening, upsetting… something, but I can't even feel a tinge of emotion as his words blur together.

He'll come up with another combination of drugs I suppose.

We begin to go through my typical post-episode routine.

"Do you remember anything from this past week?"

I honestly don't.

"Do you remember throwing yourself at your window?"

That would explain that still painful gash on my forehead.

"How would you say your feelings of depression are this time?"

My typical post-episode feelings of depression are definitely still with me… I guess. I mean, from what I remember right before they poked me with the seemingly ever present needle.

I hear Smith sigh and hope he'll release me early from my appointment. I have nothing to say to him.

"I can't help you if you won't talk to me, Isabella."

I tried that. I tried talking when I first got here, but no one listened. No one listens! It's like I'm talking to myself, and I can't deal with it anymore.

"Your father sent you here so you could get help. He would want you to talk to me."

Guilt tripping me is not going to work and Smith knows that. He just likes seeing me squirm. The hatred I feel towards my father is enough to crack through my medicated shell, but I stay silent. I want out of this office.

Smith sighs again. "If that's how you're going to be, Isabella." He leans sideways and pushes a button. "Your new medication will start today. I don't think you should eat with the other patients today; you're not quite ready for that. I'll see what I can have brought to you. That will be all."

The bastard is smug as he takes away my dining privileges. That's what I call them. I may sit alone, but at least I'm in a room with other people who don't have a scary amount of control over my every movement. No one judges in the dining hall. We're all on the same level, all held against our will with giant pills shoved down our throats.

Yet, I can't bring myself to care. I'm so weary. I feel like I've aged fifty years in the time I've been here in the institution.

Smith escorts me to the door where an orderly is already waiting for me. I count the cracks in the tiles on my way back. Can't let my IQ deteriorate too much.

I'm left alone in my room with a bang and the sound of the lock turning in my door. I feel like I'm moving in a world of cotton – my body is slow to respond, sounds are muffled, and I somehow sink onto my hard bed with the ease of a ninety-year old.

The familiar patterns that that tatmy eyes trace on the ceiling are comforting, like my own fingerprints, only magnified. I blink so slowly that there are long moments of black in my sight. My eyes are gritty, and I can feel them roll back and forth.

I'm still thirsty. That's the one feeling the drugs can't conceal. I may not feel hunger, or anger, or sadness, but I am more than aware when my mouth is dry.

I think about trying to bang on my thick metal door to get the attention of one of the nurses, but it's too much work to walk the short distance from my bed. Besides, they've learned long ago not to pay attention to banging or yelling, not unless it sounds like the patient is harming themselves.

I'm still numbly processing the fact that Smith tried to make me feel guilty by mentioning Charlie. I wince as a particularly sharp spark of anger pierces my shell of medication. I rub my chest trying to soothe the burn. He makes me angry – I don't have to feel the anger to know it's there. Smith may be a _doctor_, but that doesn't mean he knows what he's doing.

It's almost like a feeling of self-preservation; my intense need to break free from this house of horrors.

I'm still rubbing my chest through my thin shirt when I notice the dull burn hasn't subsided. Instead, it's increased almost tenfold. I like it. I'm feeling for once. It means my drugs are wearing off; I smile at that thought. It's been so, so long.

Getting the ability to control my emotions back is like stretching my legs after sitting still for a long, long time. I'm stiff and many of the feelings are unpleasant, but the feelings of discomfort are real, welcomed emotions that have been buried deep within.

It's almost exhilarating. It gives me hope. Not hope that I'll be cured – I don't think I can ever hope for that to happen.

I feel like I can breathe. I inhale deeply just to prove it to myself.

It's a glorious feeling and I plan on enjoying it for as long as I can. I sit quietly on my bed. I'm slightly awed by how my body is more responsive. I move my hand in front of my face and flex my fingers, moving them quickly like I'm playing a piano. It's cheesy, just like how it's done in the movies, but I've taken my fine motor skills for granted and learned my lesson.

Unfortunately, without the numbness of the sedatives the pain in my wrists is amplified and almost unbearable. Still, I welcome it. I've gone too long without feeling.

As I lay on my bed flexing my fingers, I can hear the sound of approaching footsteps, and my heart jumps uncontrollably in my chest. The only reason someone comes in here is to medicate me. I don't _want_ to be medicated, but when has what I want ever mattered?

I need to decide now. I need to figure out if I'm going to fight back this time, now that I'm capable of controlling my arms and legs, or if I'm going to lie here and take it.

A thick blanket of dread rolls over me as I imagine myself submitting to the nurse. It will accomplish nothing. I don't want to begin again, the cycle of foggy days and forgotten nights.

I'm… I don't even know how old I am anymore. I don't know what year it is. I must be 16 or 17 by now. I believe that's old enough to make your own decisions. I should be the one deciding what's best for me, not some old and unhelpful man who calls himself a doctor.

My door swings open, and I can feel a wave of adrenaline rush through my veins. I don't know why I'm nervous. I almost didn't recognize this feeling; it's like a rush of euphoria coupled with a hint of fear and butterflies in my stomach.

"Hello, Isabella."

She pauses as if she's expecting a response. You think she would've learned by now that it isn't going to happen.

I look behind her. The door is open, the bright fluorescent light beckoning me. I'm so close. I don't know where I'll go once I get out of my room, but I won't stop moving.

The nurse approaches me. I count down in my head. 3, 2, 1. I jump off my bed and fly past her on somewhat unsteady legs, but they don't stop me. I hear her yell as she realizes what's going on. The path to my door has never felt longer. I feel like I'm trapped in one of those dreams where you're running and running but not getting anywhere.

Panic wells deep within my chest. I'm really not getting anywhere.

Suddenly, I'm flying backwards. Hands lose their hold on me and I hit the tile floor with what feels like five hundred pounds landing on top of me. My head snaps back and I see stars. I always thought that was just a saying, but it's true.

Something cracks, my guess would be a rib. For a moment, that pain distracts me from the pain in my head. I hear screaming. It's incomprehensible and loud. And then I realize it's me.

I scratch and kick at whatever I can. I was so close to getting out of here, I'm not about to give up.

I can hear whoever is in the room yelling things like episode and sedation. They think I'm in a fugue, but they're so wrong. I've never been this lucid! Why can't they see that?

There are hands everywhere, pinning me to the floor.

Fingers peel back my eyelids and shine a light in my eyes even though I'm clearly awake. The only thing they manage to do is aggravate the pounding in my head.

It hurts to breathe, especially with another person sitting on top of me. Something hits my face, probably a hand. I'm sure I'll be bruised within a few hours.

The rusty smell of blood permeates the air, and this time I don't have the cocoon of numbness to keep my stomach from rolling.

I try to yell at them to tell them I'm okay, that I'm still here. But my mouth is covered by a clammy hand, only adding to the nausea I'm currently fighting.

I catch another whiff of blood, probably from the cut that's reopened on my forehead, and I can't struggle with it any longer. The meager contents of my stomach force their way up my throat and pool in my mouth. I'm still on my back. I panic because I can't breathe without potentially choking myself.

The hand releases my face, and I turn my head to the side and empty my mouth. I can feel vomit slide down my cheek and pool near my neck.

There's a sharp pain in my thigh, and whoever is sitting atop me gets off. I'm like a fish out of water, flopping on my floor as the drugs kick in and ceased to be a threat to those around me. Not like I really was in the first place.

"The new doctor starts tomorrow. Maybe he can do something with her. It's not like she can get much worse."

It's strange how that's really the only sentence that filters into my clouded brain. I don't think much of it.

They make sure I'm thoroughly incapacitated before leaving and locking the door behind them. I'm left curled on my floor, bleeding and covered in vomit.

I highly doubt there is anyone out there who can help me now.

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Thank you for the fantasmic reviews. You guys are awesome, PLEASE keep it up. I'm not beyond begging here. This story is dark - it takes a lot to write the chapters. Your reviews are like energy. Also, I'll send out sneak peeks again to anyone who reviews. To anyone who didn't get a sneak peek last time and reviewed, I'M SO SORRY. That was my first time doing that, I need to set up a better system. This week will be better.

You guys rock.


	4. Chapter 4

Fugue Forgotten

Chapter 4

Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.

Thanks to PTB for the wonderful beta-ing.

I apologize for not posting on my scheduled day yesterday. FF was giving everyone a major headache.

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"Isabella. Isabella."

I pry open a dry and bleary eye to see one of the nurses staring at me. Everything aches. Everything feels swollen. I can barely remember the events that conspired only hours ago.

"Get up, Isabella. You'll be meeting the new doctor today."

I can't bring myself to move. New doctor or not, I'm done. I've given up. Last night was my chance, and I blew it.

I hear the nurse scoff at my lack of response. I slowly struggle to curl onto my side so that I'm facing away from the door. It's my only way to physically wall myself off from the world.

I try to concentrate on the myriad of sounds that filter in from the hallway – voices, a patient banging on his door, gurney wheels. The nurse left my door open. I don't even think about trying to run. Physically I can't. But I also know from experience that there's someone, be it a nurse, orderly, or even the new doctor, just outside my door.

No. Making a run for it is definitely not on my mind.

From the hushed whispers I hear from right outside my door, I'm inclined to believe that the nurse is talking to the new doctor. Their conversation is a garbled mess in my clouded brain, but I do recognize an annoyingly high-pitched female voice and a very unfamiliar male voice.

It's strange. I almost feel like some new species of animal on display. Everyone's invited to come look at the freak!

I'm still on my side facing away from the door when I feel a strange tension enter the room. Maybe I've become adept at feeling the presence of others. But unlike the typical pressure that seems to accompany the nurses and doctors I unfortunately encounter in my room, what I feel is a strange, comforting heaviness.

I'm confused, though. This heaviness is almost encompassing me with a light and buoyant feeling. It's out of place here. I've felt nothing but a dank, suffocating weight since I've stepped foot in here. I'm almost dizzy with the unexpected change.

The lightheaded feeling only increases as whoever was talking to the nurse outside my door steps further into my room. The footsteps are light. The soft smell of clean laundry and something musky swirls in the air and I feel myself relaxing.

"Isabella Swan?"

His voice is glorious, even muddled in the obscurity of my mind. It cuts through the fog with a sharpness that's almost terrifying.

My eyes are closed now. I feel almost as if denying myself one sense, even briefly, will enhance the other four. I inhale slowly. I picture his scent whirling in the air. I can almost taste the refreshing aroma. It's such an improvement over the rancid stench of piss and stale air that circulates through the entire building. My ears pick up on the light footsteps of most likely a nurse dispensing meds. I can practically hear the pills rattle in the cups. Despite all of this, I feel so alone.

"Isabella Swan?" The voice repeats my name. It's like a golden light in an otherwise dark, dead forest. A forest I've been wandering around lost in for years. His voice would awaken the trees, green the grass, and bloom the flowers. My forest, previously devoid of any color, would now be a world rich with bright hues and a warm light to guide me.

"She doesn't talk much. And she responds even less when she's having an episode." The stupid nurse ruins the visual with her grating voice.

"What medication is she currently on?"

There is a brief pause and I hope the nurse has left. She's not welcome here. I want to be soothed by this mysterious man.

"Right now, Dr. Smith is altering her daily anti-psychotics. She's also kept on a steady dose of sedatives. It makes her more manageable."

"I see." I think I detect a hint of a bite to the beautiful voice. I want to tell him the fucking nurse isn't worth his time, but the energy to turn over and address this stranger isn't in me. And I'm not sure I care enough.

"I'd like to give my own examination, if that's alright."

"Certainly, Dr. Cullen."

I hear the squeak of the rubber soles on the nurse's worn off-white Keds as she scurries out the door.

"Hello, Bella."

He knows my name. – the name I preferred to be called. I swallow thickly. I should be excited. Frightened. Elated. Confused. But I'm nothing. I feel absolutely no fear or confusion, even though a complete stranger has called me by the name I prefer to go by – a name that I've been unable to get the staff at this institution to call me ever since I have arrived.

I want to flinch as a cold hand, a hand as hard as stone, strokes back my hair the way a father would a child. The way _Charlie_ used to when I was much younger.

For what's probably the millionth time this week, I yearn for a drug free system so that I may experience my emotions and for once, act upon them. Crying would be an appropriate reaction to this moment, only I'm too numb to shed even a single tear.

I slowly open my eyes. They're still puffy, as is the rest of my face, and they feel dry. The stranger sitting in front of me, the one who must be touching me with his cool hand and talking to me with his melodious voice, is beautiful.

He's hazy, as if a film of grime is covering his true brilliance, but that doesn't keep me from seeing what shines through. His hair looks to be spun of the purest gold and is neatly brushed on his head, unlike Smith's, which is always in disarray. He's dressed impeccably in a light blue button down and dark slacks underneath a perfectly tailored white doctor's coat.

"I'm here to help you, Bella."

I want to believe him – he seems so different from the rest, and I feel an instinctual urge clawing from underneath the drugs, to trust him – but I've endured possibly years of sedated delirium. Not to mention self-inflicted wounds that take ages to heal and scar to remind me of the prisoner I've become to myself.

I just can't.

He doesn't seem bothered by my lack of response to him. I've yet to move my eyes enough to look at his face. Instead, I continue to stare straight ahead, catching brief glimpses of his light hair and the palest skin I've ever seen.

Gentle fingers gingerly keep my eyes open as a penlight is flashed over them. The same fingers keep a gentle pressure on my wrist for a few moments.

I don't think I need to be scared of these fingers. They don't wander, and they don't stay on my body longer than necessary.

He clicks his tongue and releases a breath as he gently traces the scabs that decorate my wrists.

"Can you tell me the last time you ate, Bella?"

I don't even think I can remember the last thing I ate, let alone when it was. As if my mind isn't fucked up enough on its own, these fucking drugs make it impossible to keep anything straight.

Really, everything in my life is fucked up. This stranger shouldn't even waste his time on me. It's like they say – I'm a lost cause.

Cool hands wrapping around my own pull me from my spiral of bleakness and shock me back to the present. I'm not afraid, or upset, or angry, but I want these hands off me. I've had enough of people touching me without my permission. But I'm too fucking weak to even shake off a finger.

Isabella Swan is fucking weak.

"Squeeze my hands, Bella."

Another order. Even though it is an order directed at me, it's not as demeaning as the commands I receive daily from the nurses. It's gentle and forceful at the same time.

"I need to know you're in there." That part is more of a sigh, but I hear him clearly.

I want to yell at him. I am still in here, I promise!

But my throat is dry, and my muscles feel atrophied and useless. I'm back in my dark forest. The color is gone. What was once living is now dead and dry. The golden light has vanished. I'm losing. Instead of finally emerging from the thick woodland, I'm now more deeply lost than ever. I can't see. I can't breathe. I can't move.

"Come on, Bella."

The voice is just a mere whisper, but it's back. And my forest is golden again. I can breathe deeply.

It gives me the strength to try.

I concentrate on the stranger's ice-cold hands that he has wrapped within my own. I almost expect to hear bones creak from disuse as I focus my energy on squeezing the large hands I now hold.

I can hear the stranger's sharp intake of breath as my fingers twitch. Not exactly what I was looking to do, but good enough.

"Well done, Bella. I've seen your file. I suspect this wouldn't be so hard did they not keep you drugged to the high heavens."

I would like nothing more than to perhaps pause time right now. The sensation of the smooth, cool hand brushing back my hair is more soothing than anything I can remember. It awakens me slightly from the numbness I've grown accustomed to. I don't have to think about my next episode, or the drugs I'm on, or the feelings I do or do not get to experience. I just get to be.

That's all. And after what I've been through the last couple of …years, I think, there is nothing I want more.

The stranger hushes me as I realize I'm whimpering. I'm instantly quiet.

I feel as though this man could be magic. With just a shush from his mouth and a touch from his hand, I'm instantly relaxed. Not that I was all that tense to begin with, but what is it about this beautiful, albeit strange looking, man who sits near me that soothes me?

"I want to be your friend, Bella. I want to help you."

Right. Because people only have the purest of intentions. No one wanted to be my friend. No one could help me.

Weariness rocks through my body.

Slowly, I struggle again roll to my other side away from the stranger with the soothing hands and harmonious voice. I concentrate first on moving my arms, then my chest, then my legs. It's an effort and takes far longer than it should, but I finally do it under my own power. I curl more tightly into myself as if it will shut me off from the world. My hands find themselves at my wrists, tracing the scabs that have formed where the leather bonds restrained me.

Eventually and unsurprisingly, tracing turns into picking. I don't even feel the pain as I open old wounds, and the smell of blood barely registers. Good ol' sedation.

"Bella."

The cold hands are back, but they're no longer soothing. They seem harder than before, more rigid maybe.

"Let me see, please."

I'm limp as the stranger takes my wrists and inspects them again. He's moved around to the other side of the bed now. I suppose it would be easier than reaching over me.

"Were you restrained, Bella?"

I try hard to detect the emotion coloring his voice, but I'm unable to.

A finger traces the outline of the cuff marks on each wrist. I'm sure he's following the bruises across my arms.

Finally he sighs and places my arms back at my sides.

I would like to be left alone now, I've given up – everyone else should too. But since when do I ever get what I want?

Never, really. That's not to say I was deprived as a child. My father liked to surprise me with little trinkets and I wanted for nothing.

I do, however, remember asking for one thing in particular when I was younger. I had seen all the other kids with theirs. I had spent countless nights dreaming of what mine would be like. It was something I wanted more desperately than any toy or sweet.

I remember when I asked my father his face paled to ghostlike qualities before flaming to a beet red. He was speechless for quite a while. He and I just sat on the couch, my little legs dangling above the floor with the sounds of the baseball game on the television filling the silence of the room.

I had asked for a mother.

As young as I was, I didn't realize I couldn't ask for something like that. But it made me sad to watch all the other kids my age with their mothers. Moms who made snacks, fixed scraped knees, played dress up. It was something I was lacking.

Charlie wouldn't be able to teach me how to wear make-up or shave my legs. He most certainly wouldn't be playing dress up. He wasn't able to make snacks – the man could barely cook toast for himself.

A female presence in my life was greatly needed and desperately wanted. But like I said: when do I get what I want?

I barely knew of my mother. Charlie didn't keep pictures of her around and he almost never spoke her name. _Renee_. I would later come to learn that she had broken my father's heart when, just one month after my birth, she had decided Forks wasn't for her. She found it suffocating. So she packed her bags and left my father and I.

Surprisingly, I couldn't bring myself to hate her. Maybe it has something to do with her death four years ago.

I had stopped wishing for a mother the day after I had asked Charlie for one. His reaction made me feel incredibly guilty.

That was until I had recovered from my first episode. Then the wishing came back. I figured if my father couldn't comfort me, maybe a mother could. I continued wishing up until the day Charlie signed my life away.

"Bella?"

My eyes slowly open as the stranger's voice pierces the silence in the room.

"Bella?"

He should know by now I'm not going to answer.

"Bella, it's time for me to go now. I'll be back tomorrow. I promise."

For some inexplicable reason, though I've been promised things before and never had them work out, this promise seems different. I don't want to trust this man; I don't want to have to rely on him.

I guess…well, I guess only tomorrow will tell.

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I must say, for those of you who DID review (wink wink, nudge nudge) your reviews have been absolutely amazing. Some of the things you right are beautiful. They really do motivate me to keep going. So THANK YOU.

Review and I'll send you a sneak peek at next week's chapter!


	5. Chapter 5

**Fugue Forgotten**

**Chapter 5**

**Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.**

**Thanks to PTB for the wonderful beta-ing.**

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From what I can tell, it's late morning or early afternoon. Today is my day for physical activity in the recreation room. By physical activity, I mean walking slow laps around the rectangular room by myself. But no one is touching me, and for that I am thankful.

The room is cold. Unlike my room, large windows run from floor to ceiling in attempts to brighten and liven the room. I think they just make it colder, harsher. It's the middle of winter and the view is that of endless brown woods. The leaves have all fallen, leaving the forest looking like a barren landscape save for the evergreens that are growing interspersed throughout the brown.

The room is barren like the woods. For a recreation room, there isn't much to do. There's a single wooden chair against the wall and a table in the opposite corner. That's one of the reasons why I spend my allotted time here walking laps around the room.

I follow the beat of my slow and uneven shuffle in my head, the sound of my worn slippers against the filthy tile a common sound.

I let my mind, working as slowly as my walk, wander back to yesterday. I'm still unsure about the stranger – Dr. Cullen, I think – who offered up what could just be another empty promise.

I reach the wall of windows when the pounding in my chest bothers me enough to sit down. I'm slightly winded and my heart is racing. It's clear I don't get the chance to move around nearly as much as I should.

Looking towards the locked door, I can see that there's not an orderly or nurse in sight, so I assume I still have hours left in here. I turn my attention back to the windows. They're a bit difficult to see through; years of grime have built up on the glass, making each shape slightly distorted. I smile a little and wince when it pulls at my chapped lips. It kind of reminds me how I see everything, especially on the days when I really have trouble separating my mind and reality.

My finger reaches out and touches the dirty window. I watch as flowing patterns appear in the oils and particles trapped on the glass. I'm almost surprised when clean glass is revealed from underneath my finger. The difference between the clean and dirty areas is apparent, and, for some reason, I find beauty in it.

I can't tear my eyes away. Is that all it took? With just a swipe of my finger I am able to remove years and years of dirt and dust and oil. Looking through this part of the glass makes everything clear. The abstract is gone.

I want to do the same with myself. I want someone to erase the delusional thoughts. I want someone to break the bridge that allows me to float away from reality.

I sigh and look at my hands, which have fallen into my lap. The one finger that had been tracing the window is stained an ugly brown-grey.

I resume my gaze out the window. I let my eyes wander aimlessly across the sedated landscape. Sedated indeed. An appropriate setting for that of a psychiatric institution.

The sound of metal against metal breaks my train of thought, and I snap my head around to see what's causing it.

The beautiful blonde stranger is standing in the doorway. He's smiling.

Someone who looks like that shouldn't work here.

"Hello, Bella."

His smile is so warm. I feel a dull ache in the back of my throat, almost as if I'm going to cry. But my eyes are dry and my mind is unemotional, for lack of a better word. I can't figure out why this man evokes any sort of feeling from within me.

I've been kept on my regimen of sedatives and antipsychotics. I shouldn't feel anything, but this man that almost glows as he enters the room warms me. And it disturbs me.

He's dressed well. He's wearing black dress pants with a light blue button down shirt tucked in. Mustn't forget the white coat. It's odd seeing someone who works here so well put together. The nurses and orderlies wear drab, ill-fitting uniforms and Smith wears the same two shirts with the same three pants every day.

Dr. Cullen, on the other hand, doesn't have a thing out of place. His pants still have the creases in them from being pressed.

As much as I am pulled to him, I fight the urge to continue staring and turn back to the window.

I listen to his footsteps as he walks from the doorway to the lone chair in the room. He sits, but doesn't speak.

I'm starting to feel like a trapped animal. Had I not the medication, I'm sure the feelings of entrapment would be ten times worse than it is now.

"I talked to Dr. Smith about possibly lowering the dose of your medication."

I listen closely but don't look to acknowledge him. The subtle undertones in his voice of… something I can't identify catch my attention.

"He and I aren't quite seeing eye to eye on your treatment, but I'm confident that, once your care has been transferred over to me, we can change things."

I finally turn to face him. I'm taken aback slightly as I force my glazed eyes to meet his clear ones. They're gold. The striking beauty of his eyes in conjunction with the rest of him unnerves me a little. Who is he?

"Why?"

I almost don't recognize my own voice. What I hear is gravelly and quiet – different than how I knew my voice to be. But I want to know why he feels so compelled to help me.

Charlie threw me in here to get rid of a problem. Smith does the bare minimum and labels me as a difficult patient.

What will I be to this flaxen-haired stranger?

"I help people, Bella."

God, why does his voice have to be so soothing? I feel like prey being lured by the predator; deep down, I know something is not quite right, yet I can't turn away.

"Why me?'

He smiles at me again with a face so pure I can't help but to trust him, to _want_ him to help me.

"I'm the new ER doctor at the hospital next door, but more recently I've specialized in psychiatry. You were brought to my attention by… several people. I want to help you."

He keeps repeating that phrase. I don't understand it.

I stare at him like I've been raised without manners and social grace. I yearn to dig and figure out the true meaning behind him coming here.

I wasn't necessarily content with Smith; he sure as hell wasn't helping me. But accepting this perfect stranger who looks like he _could_ be my savior is hard for me. He is throwing my imperfect and frozen world off kilter.

It spins wildly out of control like an unbalanced tilt-a-whirl. First I'm pulled one way, then another. I'm like a fucking ragdoll, helpless and flaccid. My fingers turn white as I grip at the windowsill, desperate to stop the phases that I tumble through at a dizzying pace.

It's not just my mind that is dizzy, but my fatigued body as well.

I inhale trying to ground myself when the smell of cinnamon and paper whites overwhelms me. A cool, stone hand is pressing on my shoulder. It's something I've not felt before – the combination of an icy cold touch with that of a rock-hard appendage.

"Bella?"

I tilt my head back to stare up into the enchanting golden orbs of my stranger.

_My_ stranger?

No.

"Don't touch me!"

I back away into the corner, my cry a feeble attempt at warning him to stay away.

I feel adrenaline battling with the drugs in my blood stream, causing me to run jittery one moment and sluggish the next. What a fucking mess.

I'm breathing hard with the exertion of the past few moments.

I'm surprised I haven't drawn a gaggle of nurses with my cry. Then again, I _am_ with staff.

Just as my body was caught in a mêlée between adrenaline – fight or flight, and sedatives, my mind is struggling as well. Despite my disillusionment, with my experience of how things in my life typically turn out, I want so desperately to trust this man before me.

He's kneeling, unmoved from when I lashed out at him like a cornered animal.

The numbing effects of the sedatives have long since dissipated in my bloodstream, and while my mind is still hazy, painful emotions have returned with a vengeance.

For once I find myself craving the blissful oblivion that the drugs provide. Then maybe I wouldn't have to feel the raw stinging in my chest that has been present, albeit concealed with chemicals, since my own flesh and blood abandoned me.

In a despondent attempt to run from the pain that runs haphazardly through my chest, I push myself further back into the corner. I can feel the chilly pressure of the cinderblock wall on either side of me through my thin shirt, and I shiver.

I'm overwhelmed. To go from unfeeling to emotionally besieged is like being thrown in an ocean without knowing how to swim. I paddle my arms and kick my legs and strive to reach that breath of air. Just one breath.

I yearn to be my six-year-old self again. Freud would call this regression, I believe. My desire to retreat back to a time when I was happy, safe, ignorant of the depressing and confusing aspects that haunt my daily life now, stems from my need to feel taken care of for once in my goddamned life.

Is that what my stranger is offering?

"I want to help you, Bella," he whispers in a harmonious and sweet voice. He's like an angel calling me away from the darkness that is threatening to overcome every essence of my being.

"But you need to trust me before I can."

Trust? I most certainly have fucking trust issues. How can I not, when the person I trusted the most threw me away, rejected me as his malfunctioning child.

Sorry, Charlie, no refunds or exchanges.

Too bad life doesn't work that way.

My stranger moves slowly and sits where he was previously kneeling. He doesn't attempt to move any closer. In fact, he looks quite comfortable sitting with his legs crossed on the stained tile floor.

"Maybe I'm asking a bit much. May I tell you about myself?"

I feel myself nodding before I realize I'm even doing it.

"My name is Carlisle Cullen…"

His words flow from his mouth like honey, and I sit enraptured. He tells me he's twenty-seven, but something – maybe the wisdom in his voice or the knowledge in his eyes – says otherwise.

As he speaks, I daydream. I allow his voice to paint a picture for me. He's married to what sounds like the world's most beautiful and caring woman. If I were to have had a mother, I would have wanted it to be this woman. He says her name is Esme, which means loved. His golden eyes light up as he tells me about her. Love at first sight.

As young as they are, they have five children, all adopted and all teenagers. Emmett, Rosalie, Jasper, Alice, Edward. They seem the epitome of the perfect family. And as I've been for my entire life, I'm stuck on the outside staring in. Just like when I'm caught in the throes of an episode, stuck outside looking in on my life.

I want to bang my fists on the invisible glass that keeps me separate from normalcy.

Am I not allowed to have that?

Sometimes I panic when I think about the future. I used to, before this happened, imagine a life that would eventually lead to marriage. Not necessarily kids, because I seriously doubted I could even raise a dog without screwing it up somehow. Now… now when I think about the future all I see is an indefinite stay in my gray cube of a room.

My stranger has finished speaking. I now know about him, yet I can't help but feel that something is missing. All is not as it seems.

When he realizes I'm not going to say anything, he continues on. "I know about you too. You're Isabella Marie Swan. Your father, Charlie, is the one who had you admitted. You're seventeen years of age."

I'm _seventeen_? Jesus Christ, I really have been here forever. I could've sworn I was fourteen when I first arrived. Three years may not be a lifetime, but it definitely felt like it. To spend three years of my teenage life growing up in a psychiatric institution was pretty fucking shitty.

I look at Dr. Cullen, at his perfect face, his flawless life, really. I'm envious, but more family. What makes them so perfect?

I chance a quick glance into his eyes before turning my gaze to the floor.

"I'd like to hear more about your family."

I can tell he's surprised that I've spoken to him by how he cocks his head to the side and his eyes widen slightly.

He smiles again. "Of course. Anyone in particular?"

"Edward."

I'm at a loss as to why I answer with his name.

My muscles relax as Dr. Cullen begins speaking again.

"Edward is my first son. He's your age, actually. While music is his passion, he has hopes of attending medical school."

"He likes music?" My voice is barely over a whisper, but Dr. Cullen hears me and nods.

"Classical especially. He's quite good at the piano."

What a perfect son.

I'm envious of the goddamn perfection Dr. Cullen enjoys every single day of his perfect fucking life. Has he ever felt pain? Has he ever lived in fear, or in despondence?

I highly doubt it.

I am so unused to feeling any sort of emotion that my anger catches me off guard. It's intense and fiery and overcomes the powerful feelings of jealousy that were just previously manifested deep within my chest.

Suddenly, Dr. Cullen's face is right in front of mine. His golden eyes are bright with concern. I want to hit him, to make him not so perfect anymore. I want to pull the worry out of his eyes.

No one has worried for me before; no one needs to worry for me now. I don't need and I definitely don't want to see Dr. Cullen everyday, to see what will most likely be intangible for the rest of my life.

I back away from him before staggering up. Sitting for so long leaves me dizzy on my feet.

"Bella?"

"Get away!" The harshness of my voice surprises me, but Dr. Cullen doesn't flinch. Instead, he moves closer.

"Get away." It's more of a wail of desperation this time, a sound that mirrors the envy and ache that sting with each heartbeat. I can't stand to stare at the perfection I'm missing any longer.

I angle myself away from him and move backwards towards the door. I need to escape. I'm always needing to escape.

Hands grab me from behind. They're not the cool hands of comfort I've more recently experienced. They're clammy and tight around my arms.

"What-"

"Don't worry, Dr. Cullen. She's done this before. Bella can be quite a handful."

I want to struggle, to throw the moist hands that make me nauseated off and run. Hell, even my room would be a welcome sight right now.

My sleeve is being pushed up my arm. I fight back the urge to look at Dr. Cullen, to beg him to make them stop. I don't want more drugs. But I can't look. For some reason, I'm afraid I'll see fear or disappointment in his eyes.

I already care about what this stranger thinks of me.

I see out of the corner of my eye that he steps forward, an arm raised. "That's not necessary. Just-"

It's too late. The needle is deep in my arm before he can say any more. I wilt in their arms, my flaxen haired stranger a mere outline in my fuzzy vision. He is no longer perfect.

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	6. Chapter 6

Fugue Forgotten

Chapter 5

Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.

Thanks to xochina and Megan for the awesome beta work!

To my reviewers - you guys blow me away. Keep it up!!

* * *

"_Alright, Bells." Charlie's voice is gruff; not a hint of emotion is apparent. How telling of what was to come._

"_You're here to get help – I'm doing this to help you." Why does it sound like he's trying to convince himself?_

_He won't even look at me. Instead he keeps his eyes trained down at the stack of papers on the clipboard he's clutching in his hand. _

_I'm sitting in a hard plastic chair next to him, yet his presence brings me no comfort. His exterior has become as hard as the chair he sits in._

"_We don't need to do this. You don't have to leave me here; just take me home! Please! I'll be good, I promise." God, my voice reveals just how desperate I am. _

_The tingling and unwanted sensation of anxiety and dread floats in the middle of my stomach. He's the only parent I've ever known, the one stable person in my life and he's getting rid of me. _

"_You – you just can't, alright? You're not coming home." _

_Charlie's tone is harsh and I flinch back into the red plastic of my chair. _

_So this is what it feels like. This is what it feels like to be abandoned, to not have one single person you can rely on. _

_I'm nauseous. _

"_Mr. Swan." _

_An older man with salt and pepper hair, a hooked nose, and worn brown pants with a white shirt tucked in walks towards Charlie and me. The nurse next to him just barely reaches his shoulders. She's heavyset and her beige uniform is too tight. Half of her ashy-blonde hair is pulled back in an unflattering aqua scrunchie that seems to need to be readjusted every few seconds. _

_Charlie stands, the plastic chair he was previously sitting in groaning as he removes his weight._

"_Dr. Smith. It's nice to finally meet you in person." He stiffly waves his arm towards me. "This is my daughter, Isabella."_

_The Doctor's hand is practically in my face as he holds it out, a motion to show that he wishes to shake hands. I refuse, and instead cross my arms. I'm not here willingly, and he needs to know that. _

_The tension that hangs heavily in the air is awkward. Dr. Smith doesn't seem to know what to do with his still-extended hand. I stare at him for a few moments before he recoils his hand and shoves it in the pocket of his faded brown pants. _

"_Isabella!" Charlie snaps at me. He never spoke in the tender and loving town that showed he loved me anymore. It seems all Charlie does now is yell or mumble at me. _

"_I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. She's not too happy with our current situation." Like he always does when he's uncomfortable, Charlie rubs the back of his neck with his left hand and studies the floor._

"_That's quite understandable, Mr. Swan. Did you finish filling out the papers?" _

_I watch with disgust as Dr. Smith's gaze travels from the papers in Charlie's hand to me. It leaves me feeling unsettled and even more anxious. With his eyes still trained on me, Dr. Smith takes the papers from Charlie and smiles._

"_Excellent." _

_He takes another sheet of paper from the nurse and hands it to Charlie. "If you'll just sign at the bottom."_

_I watch in abject horror as Charlie signs my life away and shakes hands with the doctor, a grim smile playing on his face. _

_I'm still sitting in my red, plastic chair when Charlie turns and walks over to me, positioning himself so that he is directly in front of me._

"_You're gonna get better, Bells. I'm doing this for your own good. I'll be back for you when you're all better, I promise."_

_The first of many empty promises. _

_The doctor, nurse and I watch silently as Charlie exits through the sliding doors out to the main hospital parking lot. The clicking of the doors sliding together is like the sound of my last connection to Charlie snapping in pieces. _

"_Come along, Isabella." The friendly tone the doctor had before is gone, replaced with a voice that borders on the edge of cruel. Now alone and terrifyingly unsure, I scurry to keep up with him and the nurse as I watch the back of his white doctor's coat flap behind him. They remind me of the wings of a dove, yearning to be free from here. _

_I'm led into a cold and sterile room. There is a desk with a chair, a clear plastic bin, two cabinets with a counter, and an examination table. As the nurse pulls me over to the table, Dr. Smith takes my lone bag from me and throws it on the desk._

"_We'll deal with that in a moment. First, Jane and I will conduct the physical part of the personal inspection first. On the table, please."_

_I can feel my heart pound in my chest. I can hear my blood rushing through my veins. I can feel legs l as if they are glued to the brown tile floor on which I stand._

_A hand yanks me towards the unwelcoming metal table, and I yelp in pain as my right hip connects with it. _

"_Up."_

_  
Dr. Smith practically hoists me up onto the table as he would a small child. My legs are hanging over the edge, and I shiver from the cold of the metal that is absorbed through my jeans. _

_Moments later, I'm repositioned so that I'm lying down, with Dr. Smith at my head and Jane at my feet. I'm shivering harder now, not just from the cold, but from the fear. I've never been manhandled like this before. I'm in danger and there's nothing I can do about it. _

_My jeans and sweater are carelessly pulled from my body. A clammy hand pries my mouth open, making me gag. Another hand moves up my legs. I feel violated, dirty, and ashamed. No part of me is left unscathed. Despite please to stop. I try to kick and push the hands away but they are strong, too strong for me to fight back. I won't be surprised if there are bruises on my jaw and ankles later tonight. _

_I squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that bright exotic patterns of aquas, fuchsias and limes scamper across the back of my eyelids. I try to pretend I'm elsewhere. I try to concentrate on following the fleeting patterns as they dance in my vision. _

_I'm harshly thrust back into reality as I'm yanked back onto the floor and tossed a pile of dingy, gray, clothing, a simple pair of thin cotton pants and an even thinner cotton shirt. _

_I'm shaky as I hurry to cover myself. I barely comprehend what is occurring around me as my mind struggles to process the day's events. _

_As I follow the nurse, Jane I think, out of the room and down the hall, my eyes dart around wildly. It's so gloomy here. The hallways are dark, even though they're lit with large florescent bulbs. They are painted an ugly off-white color that seems to have taken on a brown tinge, further emphasizing the sad state of the tiled floor. _

_What has my life become?_

"_You'll be in here, Isabella. Someone will be checking on you in a few hours."_

_The nurse gives me a no-so-gentle nudge into my new room, and with the locking of the heavy door behind me, I'm alone._

_Alone. _

I wake, still alone. From my throbbing head, I can tell the drug of choice this time was a benzodiazepine. It would also explain the godforsaken nightmare I had just endured for what looks to be most of the night. I'm not sure, but it looks to be daytime from what I can see through my tiny window.

Coming here was like a rude awakening to all the evils of the world. Coming here made innocent Isabella Swan grow up. Fast.

If only daddy dearest knew what his precious little girl had to endure within five minutes of entering this hellhole, a world so surreal it must be an alternate universe.

Grumbling in my stomach pulls me from my morbid thoughts. My ability to feel my hunger means the drugs must be wearing off. I doubt it will last long. The nurses are like bloodhounds when it comes to knowing when a next dose of 'the good stuff' is needed.

The good stuff indeed. More like the easy way out, the quick fix for lazy nurses.

A knock on my door has me bolting upright in my bed, swaying with the dizziness and headache that still plague my abused body. My heart rate increases tenfold. A knock on the door only means one thing – a doctor or nurse who's come to torture me. It's fucking white coat syndrome, except I have a legitimate reason to panic.

I hear the creaking of the old hinges as the door slowly swings open.

And then a melodious voice calls out and everything changes.

"Bella?"

My stranger, Dr. Cullen, peeks his perfect face around the side of the door, his beautiful smile almost blinding. Granted, I'm experienced enough to know the drugs are probably heightening whatever "experience" I'm having right now, but I don't care.

His smile widens as he sees I'm awake. "How are you feeling today?"

As pleased as I am to see him, I can't quite bring myself to show that in an vocalized response. Something in the back of my mind still ticks – something is still telling me there is something not quite right with this man.

I shrug my shoulders. It's the least I can do. I'm instantly reminded of yesterday, the memories somewhat hazy, and I feel bad. He didn't deserve to be treated like that. I shouldn't have gotten so angry with him. He just – he just has everything that I want.

I feel the anger start to boil up within me again, the edge slightly numbed by the remnants of my medication. I take in a slow breath and release it just as slowly.

"Are you hungry?"

His shimmering golden eyes, almost the color of a sunrise, lock onto my plain brown ones. I feel like he can see straight through to my soul. I feel naked before him and quickly glance away to break the contact.

My stomach rumbles slightly, the first time in what feels like weeks, and I can feel the heat of a blush rise in my neck and cheeks. I hear my stranger's soft chuckle, alerting me to the fact that he has heard it too.

"I'll take that as a yes. There's someone else here who would like to visit you, with lunch."

He looks nervous, but hopeful. I can't hurt him, as jealous as I am of him and his perfect life. He's one of the only friendly – actually he _is_ the only friendly person I've encountered here. He's the only one who hasn't come to my room with the intentions of hurting me. He's the only one who's kept his hands to himself and treats me like I'm – well – I'm _normal_. I can't lose that.

So I do the only thing I can. I nod my head in agreement. I'll let whoever wants to put up with me do so, for my stranger's sake.

I'm rewarded with a warm smile, and just moments later Dr. Cullen is gently leading me down the hall to the room typically used for family visits. Before we even enter, I see an equally stunning woman sitting in a chair in the center of the room. Her hair is the color of melted caramel and it looks just as smooth. Her skin is free of any impurities; her eyes are the same brilliant and warm gold. She's dressed in a plum wrap dress and holding a brown paper bag. Lunch, I'm assuming.

"Hello, Bella." The smoothness of her voice is unexpected, though I guess I should've realized she'd be perfect in every aspect as well.

I know it's rude to stare, but that's all I can manage until I force myself to concentrate on choosing the seat that's the farthest from everyone else while my stranger seats himself on the edge of the woman's chair. I can feel the woman's eyes on me as I pull my legs underneath me in the chair. It makes me uncomfortable, but not necessarily in a bad way.

The crinkling of the paper bag unfolding is the only sound as I continue to avert my gaze.

"Bella, this is my wife, Esme. She wanted to meet you and bring you lunch. She knows as well as I do that hospital food can be quite unappetizing."

The soothing quality of his voice is still there and I watch, slightly uncomfortable, as he places a hand on the woman's shoulder and squeezes.

My stranger and his wife chuckle at his comment, but I do not.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as she pulls a sandwich from the bag. It looks homemade on thick slices of bread with bright green lettuce peeking out from beneath. With a graceful hand the color of snow she holds it out to me.

Seeing something so fresh and appetizing in front of me only sharpens the pangs of hunger that run through my stomach. It's an internal battle. I don't want to take the sandwich from her, this perfect woman I should be jealous of, but hunger is a powerful drive, and I find myself gingerly leaning forward and accepting the edible offering from her with a shaky hand. I don't even know how long it's been since I last ate.

"Bella is a beautiful name. Very befitting."

I don't answer her. I'm too busy shoving bites of the sandwich in my mouth. Nothing has ever tasted this good before. Than again, nothing would taste good in a place like this.

"You should slow down, Bella. You're going to make yourself sick if you continue to eat that quickly."

I immediately feel guilty for my gluttonous behavior.

"Hush, Carlisle. The poor girl is hungry. Let her enjoy her sandwich."

I stare up at her with a full mouth, surprised that she would speak back to her husband and allow me to continue to scarf down my food. She gives me a quick wink and that's when I feel it for the first time since I've wandered down this scary road of mental instability:

Hope.

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Please review, I'll send you a sneak peek of the next chapter. I might be late posting next week because I'll be away, but I'll do my best to be on time. Either way, you'll get a preview so review!!


	7. Chapter 7

Fugue Forgotten

Chapter 7

Disclaimer: S.M. is credited with the Twilight Saga and associated characters.

Thanks to xochina and Megan for the awesome, amazing, fantastic beta work!

To my reviewers - you guys make me cry happy tears, please keep it up. I apologize with lack of responses and the time between updates, RL has literally exploded - small apartment fire, midterm and papers, me being too tired to write. But I'm working on it!

Answers:

1. Bella's condition is an actual psychological condition called dissociative fugue. Previously called Psychogenic Fugue. I've taken a few small liberties with it, but since many people suffer from disorders that don't follow the typical pattern, this shouldn't be a bother.

2. The Cullens ARE vampires. We'll hopefully be seeing Edward soon. I'm also in the process of getting things from their POV as we speak. Fingers crossed.

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My sandwich is absolute heaven. After the first bite, I can barely control myself. I finish it in minutes.

Esme watches me with soft eyes. She hasn't said anything yet, but I know she will. There's something about her, a quality I can't identify that lures me in.

The light filtering in from the windows lets me know it's mid-afternoon. I allow myself a small smile as I realize I've missed my earlier dose of meds because I've been with Dr. Cullen. Being able to think slightly more clearly is a feeling that I can only compare to that of stretching unused muscles after they've lain dormant for a long period of time.

"I'm glad you enjoyed your lunch, Bella." Esme speaks softly, like she would to a skittish animal she was trying to soothe.

I clear my throat. I know my voice will never sound as heavenly as theirs, but I want to make an effort to sound decent. I want them to see that I don't belong here. I'm lost, abandoned, weighed down with a disease that seems to be ravishing my mind, but I'm still Bella. Part of me is still normal.

"Thank you," I croak. "It was delicious."

I'm confused as I see both Esme's and Dr. Cullen's faces light up as I speak. My voice makes even me wince, yet they are beaming.

"It was my pleasure, dear. Thank you for allowing me to visit with you."

I'm confused as to why she is thanking me. She's the one who went out of her way to see a patient at a psychiatric institution. She's the one who took the time to make a gourmet sandwich. She shouldn't be thanking me.

"Carlisle tells me you've been here for quite some time. If you don't mind, I'd like to keep you company when I can. I know how lonely it can get when you're cooped up."

Now more clearheaded than I've been in a long time, I can sense something buried deeper in that statement, but by no means do I feel comfortable pursing that train of thought. I simply nod my head.

It _is_ lonely.

It's lonely when you have no one but yourself to keep company, and you're best described as unreliable.

Unreliable. Untrustworthy. Dangerously unstable and unpredictable. How befitting.

I crave… I crave normalcy. I crave the ability to trust, not only others, but myself as well.

"Bella?"

Esme's soft voice breaks through my morose, yet undeniably true, thoughts. It is now that I realize that Dr. Cullen, my stranger has left us and just Esme and I remain alone.

"You remind me of my daughter quite a bit."

I can see a great sadness in her expressive, golden eyes. She seems to be recalling something that troubles her immensely, and for a moment, I wrestle with the urge to cross the room and touch her. But then I think back to my stranger's description of his family and I compare both his and Esme's appearances. How could _I_, with my limp brown hair, pasty face, and boring brown eyes, remind this woman of a girl who is most likely just as beautiful as her parents?

I urge Esme to continue with a brief glance, although I fear that this will most likely end as a painful jab to my already nonexistent self-esteem.

She gifts me with a pained smile.

"She's a tiny thing. She's really our little pixie and has the personality to match. You see, Bella, Carlisle and I adopted her years ago. We don't know much about her background except that her parents left her institutionalized when she began experiencing… symptoms. Carlisle came upon her, and found out her parents were no longer in the picture. While she may be a bit different, there is nothing wrong with her."

Is that how one could describe me: different, but otherwise healthy? I can assume that unlike the Cullen girl, I faced physical damage with my condition. Unlike the Cullen girl, I didn't have a family to swoop in and save the day with papers and promises of adoption. I just had… myself.

Yet, I crave to know more about this Cullen girl. "What's her name?"

"Alice."

What a simple name. Perfect Alice, meet messed up Bella.

Jealousy is an ugly beast and mine roars uncontrollably. I allow myself the satisfaction of leaving it rearing, unchecked. I have every right to be jealous. I don't have anything that bares even the slightest resemblance to normal. My father threw me away, my mother is dead and I spend my days sitting in a prison while I hear of how well life turned out for others. Fuck this.

I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms, trying to rid myself of the annoying prickling sensation. I don't want to cry in front of her. She's _not _my mother. She's some other, girl's, some lucky girl's mother.

But I'm not strong enough to hold back. I pull my hands away from my face and warm liquid runs down both of my cheeks.

"Bella, sweetheart," Esme murmurs. "What's wrong?"

The concern clearly evident in Esme's voice is touching, yet unnecessary. I've gone this long without someone to dry my tears, there's no need to start now.

"Nothing."

I'm surprised, startled, and slightly uncomfortable when she appears in front of me, kneeling at my chair. Her hand, as cold and as hard as her husband's, cups my cheek. It takes all of my willpower to look away.

"You can trust me, sweetheart."

And that is all it takes. The dam breaks, I fold – I'm weak. My sobs are so intense they're almost painful.

I haven't cried or felt emotional pain like this in so long. My chest is tight; I can feel myself heaving with the effort of drawing in breath. My wails are ugly and I'm sure my face is a fucking masterpiece. The thin cushion on the chair does little to protect my ass from the hardness of the chair beneath it, but that doesn't stop my body from shaking against it.

But then that hardness is gone, only to be replaced by another type, a more comforting hardness. I'm in Esme's lap and I'm surprisingly not uncomfortable with that fact. I inhale, and the scent of lilacs and lavender hits me. Jesus, she even smells like a mom.

"Shh. It's going to be okay. I just need you to talk to me sweetheart."

I'm not sure I know how. I've spent the past three years talking to someone about my supposed issues and it's gotten me nowhere. I don't think I know how to have a productive conversation anymore.

"What has you so upset, Bella?"

Her hands are soothing as they slowly rub up and down my arms.

I'm still too upset to answer her question and I don't know if I even have an answer for her. It's too hard to explain what I've been through, to try and make her see what I've seen.

The grief is overwhelming, as is the pain in my heart.

Esme must sense this as she pulls me tighter to her chest and rocks me gently. It's almost like making up for lost time, all the times I yearned for a mother to kiss away my hurts but never had one.

"It's okay to need help, sweetheart. Everyone does occasionally."

Her gentle hands still rub my back. Her comfortable body still rocks my own, and slowly I begin to calm.

The pressure in my chest lessens and I can breathe again. The flow of tears lightens, and my sobs quiet.

Only now do I notice that my right hand is gripping the side of Esme's dress. Such white fingers against such a vibrant, plum-colored fabric.

Purple is my favorite color. I haven't seen a color this vibrant in three years, just gray walls, gray pants, off white scrubs.

The silence between us is comfortable and I hesitate to break it. If I could just pause life, stop the world, and hold on to it a little while longer, things might just become a little more bearable.

"I'm so tired." I whisper. It sounds deafening in the cold and empty room.

"Tired of what, sweetie?' Her voice is gentle, softly probing for an answer, anything. I find it odd that she immediately assumes that it's mental exhaustion. It's clear to me that she's very perceptive. But what mother isn't?

I don't want to have to ruin her perfect world and tell her I'm tired of living. Why burden her with my problems when every day I'm a little closer to ending them? The body can only exist without the mind for so long.

I sigh. No. Now is not the time to bring that up. I want to be able to enjoy this maternal comfort while I can. I even moan a little when Esme's fingers rub against my scalp.

"Would you like me to braid your hair, Bella? I think you'd look very pretty with a braid."

I nod slowly. I don't think anyone has ever braided my hair before. It seems very… motherly.

Esme scoots me forward so that I'm sitting in front of her and I silently enjoy this moment, just me and her. Her hands never leave my hair. I relish the feeling of her fingers weaving in and out, twisting and pulling my hair into something new and different.

When Emse finishes, her hands grasp my shoulders and she turns me to face her. Her golden eyes are absolutely striking, so wide, so clear, so astute. It's clear this woman has witnessed many things – I see the strength that runs beneath her porcelain skin. I wish I had even a fraction of her strength.

"There. Now we can see your beautiful face."

She moves her hands towards mine and I flinch. I can't help it. It's like I'm programmed now – too many bad experiences with hands. For a moment, I see a flash of hurt in those expressive eyes and I want to kill myself for being the cause of this stunning angel's grief. I shrink away and slide backwards on the floor. I need to get away from this woman before I hurt her even more. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if her world of perfection came to an end because of me.

I chance a glance up at her again and I see her eyes are thick with unshed tears.

I'm such a fuck up.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

She gasps and I grimace. An ache returns to my chest and I almost crave the sweet oblivion of the sedatives.

Like Esme, tears pool in my eyes, but I don't have her strength and they run freely down my cheeks.

Esme starts to move towards me, but we are both distracted by shouts echoing from down the hall. The angry voices get louder and I can now distinguish them as male.

I'm proven correct when Dr. Smith, followed closely by Dr. Cullen, appears, angry and rushed, outside the room. The dirty glass that separates Esme and me from the hall slightly distorts the two men.

"Dr. Smith!" Dr. Cullen shouts.

I've never heard my stranger raise his voice and while it's still beautiful, it's also scary and intimidating. Even his wife looks a bit stunned.

"You will not stop me, Dr. Cullen." Dr. Smith almost growls at my stranger, and my hair stands on end.

Smith throws open the door and I cringe as it hits the wall of windows that separate it from the hallway. He looks at me with furious brown eyes and if I've never feared for my life before, I do now.

Instinct tells me to run, and I do, well, as best I can. I scramble to get to my feet but I'm still unsteady and can't move fast enough.

Smith grabs me by the wrist and I cry out when a sharp pain spikes down my arm. He's reopening the cuts from the restraints that have finally scabbed over and it's burning.

"Stop. You're hurting her!" Esme is at Smith's side now. Her voice, though unsteady, is commanding. Unfortunately for me, Smith doesn't listen.

"You've missed your morning meds, Isabella."

"Dr. Smith!" Carlisle snarls.

Carlisle's roar echoes through the room. Smith turns to look at him, his grip still tight on my throbbing wrist. He's breathing heavily, his eyes are wild, his salt and pepper hair is in disarray. And I'm at his mercy.

"She does not need the medication. Bella is my patient, my orders _will_ be followed." Dr. Cullen's voice is terse and commanding, and I want nothing more than to run to him.

For a moment, I could've sworn I hear a growl. Carlisle's eyes are an enraged dark ocher that look like they could burn through flesh if he so wished.

"She is not under your care yet, Carlisle."

This time I'm positive I hear a growl, though I'm not certain where it comes from.

Without giving Dr. Cullen a chance to respond, Smith pulls me from the room.

I watch despondently as Dr. Cullen puts out a hand to stop his wife from following. They watch with wide, sorrow-filled eyes.

"Please." I beg.

Please, do something. I don't want to go back to that dark place.

"I'm sorry!" I plead.

I'm never good enough. It's always my fault. Charlie sending me away was my fault – my fault that I couldn't control my own body. Now I'm being taken away because I couldn't control my stupid emotions. I'm a fucking weakling who can't do anything right.

I just needed one more chance, one more chance to prove that I can control myself, that I'm really a good person. I may not be perfect like the Cullens, but I wanted to try and get as close to it as I could.

My hair falls out of its braid as I'm whipped around. My foot catches on a loose tile and I trip, my head connecting with the floor with a sharp smack. Smith never loosens his hold. He simply pulls me up and continues to drag me down the hallway.

A hand to the head tells me I'm bleeding.

I catch one last glimpse of the perfect pair as I'm dragged away. Their faces are oddly tight. They almost look like statues.

There is a last flash of gold, a last glance at my disappearing hope, and then a needle is shoved in my arm and I'm thrust into my room - locked into my metal and cinderblock cage.

Might as well throw away the key.

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Please review, you guys are inspiring and motivating. I also get some great ideas. My question for you - how did you find this story?


	8. Chapter 8

**Fugue Forgotten**

**Chapter 8**

_Disclaimer: Twilight and all characters belong to S.M._

Thanks to Cold Comfort and xochina for kicking this chapter into gear. I always appreciate the effort!

* * *

"I have to get her out, Esme."

Carlisle's wife squeezed his shoulder, and he melted into it.

"When will she be transferred to your care completely?" Esme paused, her thoughts of concern etched deeply on her face. "It's obvious Dr. Smith won't let you near her until you're her legal guardian."

"I don't know," Carlisle sighed. "I don't know, damn it!" Carlisle slammed his fist down on the table, raising it to repeat the movement when Esme's hand covered his own.

He wasn't used to feeling helpless. In all his existence, there was rarely a time when he was unable to get something done. But Bella, this helpless human girl he had already fallen in love with, felt like she was one of their own already. She – well, she was indeed a challenge, and not just in terms of getting her care transferred. Her case, medically, was already proving difficult.

"When I go in tomorrow morning I'll be visiting the office to see if I can figure out what the hold up is."

"Carlisle," Esme began. He recognized her soft sigh and knew what was coming. "We'll get her out of there. We'll figure something out."

"She's right." A light, airy voice floated into the dining room, and Carlisle looked up to see his tiny, raven-haired Alice standing at the threshold of the room.

"I see it," she continued. "I see Bella here, with us."

It's been minutes. It's been hours. It's been days. I think. Time stretches onwards, no end in sight, no clear beginning. It's been… a long time since I've last seen my stranger. Since I was so roughly ripped form the gentle arms of safety, parental safety. Since then, I've been locked in a drug-induced haze – a prison. The swollen gash on my forehead has crusted over into a stiff reminder of something I so desperately want to forget.

Strangely enough, I haven't seen Dr. Smith since he tore me from the only source of pleasure I've experienced in years - my only source of hope. It's like I've been quarantined, isolated from everyone else, as if this was an infection disease ravaging my body. As if I hallucinated my stranger and his wife. As if just being in my presence would somehow cause a similar hallucinatory state of happiness. God forbid the patients are happy.

My heavy eyes roll towards the window. I don't see sunlight and I hazard a guess that it's nighttime. My wing of the hospital is quiet. We are all drugged or asleep. And dying. We are _all_ slowly dying.

I think I hear angels. I know I see them. The woman standing in front of me glows in the dim light that filters through my window. Her luxurious, blonde hair cascades down a shoulder, and her perfectly shaped face is peaceful and unmarred.

Her voice attempts to reach me through the thick cotton that fills my head. I can't understand what she says but can't help but to be lulled by her sweet voice into a state of relaxation without worry.

Gentle hands remove the leather bonds that hold me down, trapping me to my bed. Other hands, less feminine but just as tender, cradle my body. I don't find the urge to fight them off. Instead, I sink deeper into them, into the arms that support me. My eyes droop and I fiercely fight to keep them open. Short, icy-blonde hair and a familiar face catch my uncooperative eyes.

My stranger. Carlisle.

I try to reach out to him, but my arms flop ungracefully against the chest of whoever is holding me.

I must have caught his attention as he pauses for a brief moment and in a familiar gesture, strokes my cheek with a warm smile. I open my mouth to cry out to him, but I choke on my thick, dry tongue.

He hushes me. It's music. The sweet, harmonious melody quiets me instantly, enveloping me in its saccharine timbre. "You're safe now."

I grow woozy, drunk, as his cool breath hits my face. I sink deeper into his arms, my legs swaying slightly as we move – forward I'm guessing.

"Is the paperwork done, Carlisle?"

A deep rumbling, like a growl, erupts from beneath my ear and I squeeze my eyes shut. The rocking is no longer soothing, and I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. Panic wells; it boils up and threatens to spill over. My recent dose has yet to kick in. The residual sedatives in my blood dampen it, but the blow is still staggering. I'm out of control.

"Carlisle." There is an edge to the voice now. Panic, anxiety, pain.

I'm frightened. I'm thrown into my past. Clammy hands are on my legs. Thick fingers are in my mouth. Needles. Leather straps; I am bound and unable to move.

"I need to – ," The voice speaks again.

"Rosalie, take her. Edward, go."

I'm nearly dropped into the new set of arms, trembling against their hardness.

A recognizable rush of now-euphoric numbness rushes through me as my nightly meds kick in. I'm sliding against leather, and I recognize the sound of a car engine as I'm cradled into someone's side.

"Rest now, " she says.

We move quickly, but I manage to catch glimpses of the outside world. I'm surprised to see it's not quite evening, but rather the sky has settled into a subdued explosion of cool colors, indicative of twilight.

My eyes flutter closed for what I believe to be only briefly, but when they open, I see we've pulled in front of a large, modern house. I lose minutes in between each blink, like a strobe light in slow motion.

I'm lowered onto a bed, a real bed with a mattress made for comfort, and smooth sheets. I nearly groan in pleasure as the cool fabric encompass my body. Finally, feeling truly safe, I sleep.

The ticking permeates my brain like an itch I can't scratch. The fog of sedation has lifted, but I feel strange, unlike previous times when the drug has worn off.

The clock tattoos a rhythm of annoyance in my head and I curl sideways, eager to remove myself from the sound.

I partially manage to drown out the sound, flashes of pain running throughout my body with each throb of my heart as I struggle to silence the noise.

"You're awake."

My stranger is here, and his cool hands lift me into a sitting position while I vigorously work to open my eyes. I finally do. My stranger is blurry, hazy, obscured behind a fuzzy film. But his good looks are there nonetheless.

" Hurts." The word tumbling from my lips feels foreign. He hushes me gently and brings a glass of water to my lips. I greedily gulp down the liquid, unaware of how parched my throat is.

"We are weaning you off the medications. Your body is adjusting."

He lowers me back onto the pillows. "On more hurdle, sweetheart."

My mind keeps repeating that. A hurdle. Just one more.

I'm awake again. My body tenses, expecting the painful sensation of the ticking clock, but oddly enough, it never comes.

The clarity with which I function astounds me. I can breathe. I can feel and move unrestricted. I can sense.

The room is still, quiet, peaceful. The silence is welcoming, unlike the unnatural silence at the hospital. The stillness is accompanied by a darkness that seems to pervade from outside the curtained window. I feel strangely safe, cocooned in this room. A plush, overstuffed chair fills the opposite corner of the room next to a small and elegant desk both in hues of blue and cream.

I suddenly remember who this room belongs to. My stranger. I grasp at crumbs of memories of the past events – arms, more golden hair, a beautiful voice, st - .

"Bella?"

My heart pounds in my chest, partially from being caught off guard and partially from the sound of the voice.

My stranger walks into my room balancing a tray in his arms, with his angelic wife at his side. My heart clenches as I realize how paternal their actions are and how much I yearn to be a child in their arms.

Their movements are slow, calculated, testing, as if they're waiting for me to snap. But their presence brings me joy. I smile at them.

Esme glides past Dr. Cullen and perches on my bed, her eyes focused on me. I'm not used to the attention and lower my gaze to the sheets. I can feel the heat of a blush creep up my neck.

"How are you feeling, dear?"

"Better, thank you."

Dr. Cullen places the tray he was carrying on my nightstand and gently takes my wrist in his cool hand, stony fingers probing for my heart rate.

I glance at the tray and see a steaming bowl of what I assume is soup and a glass of water sitting next to a large glass of something orange.

My stranger chuckles. "Soup, water, and a nutrient enriched smoothie. You don't have to finish it, but I'd like you to eat as much as you can."

Only then do I realize that it's probably the middle of the night and I've kept them from resting. Panic washes through me.

"I'm sorry!"

Esme looks bewildered and I catch her as she glances at Dr. Cullen. "Whatever for?"

"I, I'm, it's late! I didn't mean to keep you up. I'm sorry, really – I don't need anything."

I watch, confused, as Dr. Cullen stifles a laugh behind a fist. "There's nothing to worry about, Bella. Esme and I consider ourselves night owls."

It takes a moment, but I manage to relax. Whatever's steaming in that bowl smells delicious, and my stomach rumbles. I blush again, my stomach a reminder that I have yet to master the art of controlling my body.

"Oh!" Esme nearly bounces from my bed in an uncharacteristically giddy movement and hands me the bowl that has caught my stomach's attention. If I squeeze my eyes tightly and forget all the bad I've seen, it's almost like I'm home with _my_ mom, being cared for. It doesn't feel so uncomfortably awkward when I think of it like that.

I try and eat as much as I can for both their sakes. They've been so good to me and I would be so upset with myself if I came across as ungrateful.

As soon as I've stuffed myself, the glass and bowl are whisked away and Dr. Cullen joins his wife on the bed. I stare at the two of them, so striking in their beauty, their grace, their kindness.

"Bella, dear, our children are very much looking forward to meeting you. We're not pressuring you, and certainly don't want you to do anything until you're feeling better, but know that they're there and want to help you."

Her smile is a bit watery, like she's trying to hold back tears. I can only manage a nod, as the thought of meeting more people, people probably as perfect as the two who sit before me, terrifies me slightly.

My hand shakes as I try to brush some of my hair away from my face.

"Shhh." Esme hushes me and steadies my hand between her own. "There's no need to worry. We won't force you. Just know you have a whole family ready to support you. They're quite sensitive to others; you may be surprised how helpful they are."

Small, gentle hands guide me down into the cloud-like pillows. "Rest now. We'll be here when you wake."

* * *

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